Bliss
by Rory J. Evans
Summary: Peter/Caspian. They're not in love. Peter knows that. Doesn't he?


Disclaimer: Don't own Narnia.

They're not in love; Peter knows that. They don't share the gentle warmth and comfort that couples do - if they can be called even that. They don't reassure each other in any other terms except those dealing with diplomacy or battle. Peter knows their kisses aren't made up of the stuff of fairy tales, the things he finds in Lucy's books that he reads to her even now.

Peter knows that all they share is the bare minimum: kings and men in need of a warm bed - if that - for a few hours. Peter knows that when he looks at Caspian when they spar - to keep in practice - that he doesn't get the butterflies that Susan tells him about, doesn't feel the bouts of protection and warmth that Lucy feels, doesn't want to spend hours talking like Edmund does. All he thinks of is the forward thrust, hit, strike, turn, arch, thrust of Caspian, sweaty in the summer sun, and how fighting isn't so different from sex.

Sometimes Aslan watches them fight and then he reminds himself that it is wrong - what they're doing - but they do it anyway somewhere in a deserted corner of Cair Paravel; between the ruins that haven't been rebuilt; hot, sticky on the ground because, really, they can't be bothered to find someplace more comfortable.

He knows that there is something more brutal between them, like two clashing swords - safe in their hilts apart but lethal and deadly together. Their whatever-it-is is destructive. He knows. Both he and Caspian have been chastised by an angry Susan over the lamps they've tipped over or the tables they've broken because _really, boys,_ the budget doesn't allow for such daily repairs.

Susan tells them to be careful, maybe to even stop fighting all together, but her words hold two meanings. Peter knows that somehow she found out - he doesn't want to ponder how exactly since she is his sister but she knows.

Peter knows too that he is toeing the line between propriety and complete unabashed wrongness but he thinks that, really, there isn't much of a difference between the two. He only hopes that Aslan won't change his mind and send him back. He knows that Caspian needs him in more ways than one: as King and lover, though Peter - not entirely comfortable with the term - will never admit to being described as the latter.

He knows that he has never known bliss until he found Caspian's body, has never closed his eyes and simply _let go _like he does now. It's not love. It's carnal, dangerous lust, consuming and hot and fueled by angry Spanish words and animal groans. And if they do stay afterwards, it is only because they are too tired to move and not because they like the feel of cooling skin on skin.

Peter will never admit that Caspian is also, in his own way, truly Magnificent; he retains that title for himself, makes Caspian say it too sometimes because he likes how it sounds. The Prince -- _King _-- has a wonderful way of pronouncing High King Peter the Magnificent as if he were a god or a prayer, as if the words themselves were magic, beautiful.

Peter loves the way his hair glints dark red in the candlelight and the way he bares his teeth before he throws his head back. But he'll never admit to that either. He permits himself to love only the little pieces of Caspian, the things he can touch, can be touched, want to be touched, but not the whole being.

He doesn't like the way Caspian signs his name, all curvy and curly with too many flourishes. He doesn't like the way Caspian stretches in the morning, the way his back arches like a giant cat's because when the sun hits just right he reminds him a little of Aslan, and that's just wrong. He doesn't like the way Caspian sometimes allows himself to be affectionate - like a girl, he thinks with a grimace - and the way his face goes all soft after he's not seen him in a while. He doesn't like the way Caspian opens his letters, ripping them so that they're frayed into chunks, impossible to read or put back together.

He doesn't like many things that Caspian does - too many to list - but what bothers him is that he _has_ tried to list them and even worse, he has noticed. All of them. And it's not really something he should be doing, watching Caspian's hands glide over the glass filled with tea and ice when he's supposed to be helping him look over some reports. It's so inconvenient, he thinks, how distracting the King actually is.

He doesn't think he should be noticing anything of his (other than the standard) gestures that everyone is familiar with - the way he waves his hands, clasps arms, hugs, holds, comforts. Peter is frustrated with himself, particularly for knowing how intimately he does all those. Though, he tells himself that it's because he's good at making observations.

After too many observations, Peter feels that he is getting a headache. Caspian reaches over absently to take his hand off of his temple and intertwines their fingers, briefly giving Peter an encouraging smile, and returning to his reports. In that moment, hand resting comfortably in between Caspian's, he realizes that he doesn't know how to love him.

He's had and still has siblings that he cares for, would protect, would die for, but that love doesn't extend into wanting them pushed into dark corners and ravished. He doesn't want to comfort them with kisses, teasing lips on skin, doesn't want to melt their problems by a few rolls of his hands over their shoulders, doesn't want to make them feel anything that he shamelessly makes Caspian feel.

He loves his subjects, his people. He loves walking amongst them, talking with them, helping them, but that's a broader, vaguer, all-encompassing type of love. He loves Aslan too, like he would a benevolent father. That love runs deep and he can feel it even when Aslan isn't present, enveloping him in his warmth. So unlike Caspian with his hard angles and smooth planes of skin that he wants to make love to, not respect or cherish the way he would the Great Lion.

He loves Narnia too, the magic, the wonder, his home. Home - strange word because now he envisions home with Caspian, as if he was a permanent fixture, as if he was created to perfectly meld into the Narnian landscape of his inner mind, of his thoughts. He hates the fact that Caspian permeates even there.

Caspian's hand gives his an involuntary squeeze, and he finds himself tightening his grip, both on the documents in his hand and Caspian. It's not love, not love, he tells himself. He hasn't spend fifteen years in Narnia avoiding every suitor, every interested woman, to find love here, sitting next to him sipping a glass of tea and looking over what looks to be a very complicated map of Calormen in an odd moment of respite before another hour of hard horseback riding and sword fighting. This isn't what he wanted.

Is it? He looks over at Caspian, doing that thing he does where he curves the paper so sharply in his hand that there are three deep imprints and folds in the back and one in the front from his thumb. Gently, he takes the paper from Caspian's hands and sets it down on the table in front of him. He puts his own down on top of it and tugs at Caspian's hand to follow him out into the field.

"Thanks, love," Caspian says gratefully, almost absently like it's a normal everyday saying.

And there it is. Peter doesn't need anymore convincing.

He doesn't feel different, but he's not sure that he is supposed to. Maybe it is love, maybe it's not, but they never were conventional to begin with so he doesn't think finding a word for it matters.

He nods and pulls Caspian closer towards him, giving him a quick kiss before breaking into a run, throwing back a "Race you." to the young king and smiling when he hears Caspian laughing and running behind him. He thinks he loves that sound too.


End file.
